Dead Pretty - Samantha Towle Page 0,2

I sigh and shake my head. “Basically, long story short, you’re better off elsewhere.”

And now, I’m explaining myself to a cat.

This is what solitude will do to a person.

I keep walking, and when I reach my door, the cat is next to my feet, brushing up against my leg.

“I don’t have kitty food, if that’s what you’re thinking.” I sigh down at the cat, who is just looking up at me. “The last cat I liked … well, let me just say, it didn’t work out so well for him.”

The little stray meows up at me.

I sigh again and put my key in the door, unlocking it. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I open the door, and the cat trots on in.

I close the door behind us and lock it. Slide the upper and lower dead bolts into place and put on the chain.

I put my bag down and then do a sweep of the apartment, like I always do. A routine I have to do every time I come home.

Checking all the rooms, every place a person could possibly hide in my small apartment. I make sure the windows are still locked. And I turn on all the lights. Even though it’s still light outside, it will be dark soon, and I don’t like walking into any room when it’s dark.

When my search is done, I come back to the living room. The cat has made itself at home on the sofa.

I shrug off my coat, hanging it up, and kick off my shoes.

“You hungry, huh?” I walk into the kitchen. “Well, I don’t have cat food. But I think I have some canned tuna.”

I reach into the cupboard and get a can of tuna, hidden behind the soup.

I get a clean saucer from the dishwasher and open up the can.

The cat is up and jumping onto the counter straightaway. I probably should tell her to get down—hygiene reasons and all—but she’s so lovely that I can’t bring myself to.

“You hungry, cutie?” I murmur, giving the cat a stroke.

I open the can and empty it out onto the saucer. The cat is on the food immediately.

I get a small bowl and fill it with fresh water from the tap, and I place it next to the saucer of tuna.

I leave the cat eating, and I go into my bedroom and change out of my work clothes. I put on a fresh tank top, pull a T-shirt over it, and put on some sweatpants.

I head back into the living room and glance over at the cat, who is still working its way through the tuna.

Do I take it to a shelter?

But then if no one comes to claim it, they might put it down.

I can’t let that happen.

I could put a poster up around the building. But that would mean giving out my cell phone number.

Definitely not happening.

What to do?

I guess I could try knocking on my neighbors’ doors. The cat could belong to one of them.

Getting up, I go and retrieve my sneakers from my closet and put them on.

“I’m just going to go and see if I can find your owner,” I say to the cat, like it actually knows what I’m saying or cares where I’m going.

Keys in hand, I pause at the door.

I’ve only been inside for a short period of time. But it doesn’t matter how long it’s been. I always struggle to open my front door.

Because of …

No, don’t think about it.

Don’t think about any of it.

I slide open the first dead bolt.

Then the second.

Unlatch the chain.

Turn the lock.

Hand on the door handle, I take a deep breath.

Nothing is there. Nothing is there. Nothing is there.

I let out the breath while pushing down on the handle, and I yank open the door.

The hallway floor outside my apartment is empty.

I close my eyes, momentarily relieved.

I step into the hall and shut the door behind me, locking it.

Then, I start the task of knocking on each of my neighbor’s doors and speaking to people I have spent the last six months avoiding.

I let myself back into my apartment, locking the door behind me. The cat is sitting on the sofa, looking at me.

“Well, seems no one knows who you belong to.” I shrug.

Not one of my neighbors had a clue. Except the elderly lady in apartment 212, who I learned is called Chloe, has severe arthritis, and is actually really nice. She told me that, a few days ago, a new guy had moved into